Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(24)

“Well, this one just got married, and this one just bought a house—”

“Pick one,” said the scythe.

“—and this one received a humanitarian award last year—”

“PICK ONE!” yelled the scythe with a ferocity Rowan had never heard from the man. The very walls seemed to recoil from his voice. Rowan though he might get a reprieve, as he had when Faraday asked him to hand that woman the cyanide pill. But no; today’s test was very different. Rowan looked to Citra, who still stood in the doorway of the weapons den, frozen like a bystander at an accident. He was truly alone in this awful decision.

Rowan looked to the screen, grimacing, and pointed to the man with bed-hair. “Him,” Rowan said. “Glean him.”

Rowan closed his eyes. He had just condemned a man to death because he’d had a bad hair day.

Then he felt Faraday put a firm hand on his shoulder. He thought he’d get a reprimand, but instead, the scythe said, “Well done.”

Rowan opened his eyes. “Thank you, sir.”

“Were this not the hardest thing you’ve ever done, I’d be concerned.”

“Does it ever get easier?” Rowan asked.

“I certainly hope not,” the scythe said.

? ? ?

The following afternoon, Bradford Ziller returned from work to find a scythe sitting in his living room. The scythe stood up as Bradford entered. His instincts told him to turn and run, but before he did, a teenage boy with a green armband, who had been standing off to the side, closed the door behind him.

He waited with increasing dread for the scythe to speak, but instead the scythe gestured to the boy, who cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Ziller, you have been chosen for gleaning.”

“Tell him the rest, Rowan,” said the scythe patiently.

“I mean to say that . . . that I chose you for gleaning.”

Bradford looked between the two of them, suddenly deeply relieved, because this was clearly some sort of joke. “Okay, who the hell are you? Who put you up to this?”

Then the scythe held up his hand, showing his ring. And Bradford’s spirits fell again like the second drop of a roller coaster. That was no fake—it was the real thing “The boy is one of my apprentices,” the scythe said.

“I’m sorry,” said the boy. “It’s not personal—you just fit a certain profile. Back in the Age of Mortality lots of people died trying to perform rescues. A lot of them were people who jumped into flooded rivers to save their pets. Most of them were good swimmers, but that doesn’t matter in a flood.”

The dogs! thought Bradford. That’s right, the dogs! “You can’t hurt me!” he said. “You do, and my dogs’ll rip you to pieces.” But where were they?

Then a girl came out of his bedroom, wearing the same armband as the boy. “I sedated all three,” she said. “They’ll be fine, but they won’t be bothering anyone.” There was blood on her arm. Not the dogs’ but her own. They had bitten her. Good for them.

“It’s not personal,” the boy said again. “I’m sorry.”

“One apology is enough,” the scythe told the boy. “Especially when it’s genuine.”

Bradford guffawed, even though he knew this was real. He just somehow found this funny. His knees weak, he settled onto the sofa and his laughter resolved into misery. How was this fair? How was any of this fair?”

But then the boy knelt down before him, and when Bradford looked up, he was caught by the boy’s gaze. It was as if he were looking into the eyes of a much older soul.

“Listen to me, Mr. Ziller,” the boy said. “I know you saved your sister from a fire when you were my age. I know how hard you struggled to save your marriage. And I know you think that your daughter doesn’t love you, but she does.”

Bradford stared at him, incredulous. “How do you know all this?”

The boy pursed his lips. “It’s our job to know. Your gleaning won’t change any of that. You lived a good life. Scythe Faraday is here to complete it for you.”

Bradford begged to make a phone call, pleaded for just one more day, but of course, those things were not granted. They said he could write a note, but he couldn’t bring himself to find anything to write.

“I know how that feels,” the boy told him.

“How will you do it?” he finally asked them.

The scythe responded. ‘“I have chosen for you a traditional drowning. We shall take you to the river. I shall submerge you until your life leaves you.”

Bradford clenched his eyes. “I’ve heard that drowning is a bad way to go.”

“Can I give him some of the stuff I gave the dogs?” the girl asked. “Knock him out so that he’ll already be unconscious?”

The scythe considered it and nodded. “If you choose, we can spare you the suffering.”

But Bradford shook his head, realizing he wanted every second he had left. “No, I want to be awake.” If drowning was to be his last experience, then let him experience it. He could feel his heart beating faster, his body trembling with the surge of adrenaline. He was afraid, but fear meant he was still alive.

“Come then,” the scythe told him gently. “We’ll all go down to the river together.”